


king or clown or pauper

by Byacolate



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Marshmallow Adaar, Non-Inquisitor Adaar, Valo-Kas - Freeform, Valo-Kas Adaar, or Adaar Never Visited the Conclave but They Fall in Love Anyway, or How Many Sonnets Can Kaariss Write About Your Boyfriend's Cute Butt Before You Burst Into Flame, or How to Navigate a Serious Relationship Around Your Embarrassing but Well-Intending Kith
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-03-25 12:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3809779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byacolate/pseuds/Byacolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It begins, as most cosmic jokes do, with a paltry library, a heretic rebel archivist, and a Vashoth with a fistful of flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mywordsflyup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mywordsflyup/gifts).



It begins like this: Footsteps on the stairwell, heavier than most, and it draws Dorian‘s attention from his books. The figure that emerges, doused in candlelight, is taller and broader than most in the keep. The accompanying pair of horns sends a quick prickle of unease down Dorian‘s spine, though he dismisses it as swiftly as it comes.

 

Skyhold is as far from the Seheron-Tevinter conflict as Dorian could possibly be, and he‘s a little disappointed in himself for disallowing the Iron Bull‘s presence to train him out of his reflexive apprehension.

 

Word had spread through Skyhold quickly enough about the company of Tal-Vashoth mercenaries hired onto their cause; nothing sets tongues wagging like an inbound wave of qunari. Dorian surmises from the cut of the newcomer‘s clothes and weapons at his side that they have arrived.

 

A pair of keen eyes move over the Tranquil, linger briefly on the Grand Enchanter perusing the shelves, and then come to rest on Dorian. He‘s been caught staring. Well. ' _Glancing_ ' would better suit a reputation built on mysterious and somewhat daunting detachment. ' _Peeking_ ', a stretch. He‘s been caught peeking.

 

It would be rather difficult to blame him, though; the closer his new visitor draws, the easier it is to make out his face in the dim light. It‘s a good face. Strong jaw. Respectable nose. His body language is free of malice in general, which is always preferable in a man. A man who stops a comfortable distance from Dorian‘s person, inclining his neck in greeting.

 

“I was told I‘d find the library here,” he says, and the timbre of his voice is a pleasant one - low and soft, his accent difficult to place. Free Marches, perhaps.

 

“And here it is,” Dorian says, tilting his chin in kind. “Are you looking for anything in particular? It‘s a modest collection at best, I‘m afraid. Whoever built it favored Genetivi and little else. Or perhaps you‘ve been sent to keep an eye on the Tevinter mage of questionable loyalty.”

 

His new companion blinks once, lips parting for the shortest moment before he continues, as though he hasn‘t missed a beat, “I was only curious.”

 

“And here, look: you‘ve sated that curiosity with hardly any effort at all! One assumes. However, if you lost your way more times than you have toes, your dignity could hardly be called salvageable.”

 

The mountain of a man takes his cheek with the faintest smile and turns to browse the shelves on his left. Dorian watches his fingers trace lightly over old weathered spines. “There‘s plenty of knowledge to be found here,” he surmises. “It‘s a practical use of time.”

 

“We can agree on that,” Dorian says. The mercenary‘s eyes flicker to meet Dorian‘s. Keen, but not calculating. His thumb taps once on the spine of tome on early chantry history so boring it should be blasphemous.

 

“Is the Inquisition in the habit of sending Vashoth mercenaries to watch over their own Tevinter agents?”

 

“Agent?” Dorian quips. “How droll. Not nearly as exciting as or ‘ _interloper_ ’ or ‘ _fiend_ ’. Or ‘ _snake_ ’.”

 

A wrinkle forms briefly in the Vashoth’s brow as he parses Dorian out. Dorian wishes luck to him in the endeavor; many have tried, all met with abject failure. And it has never been a hardship to be dissected by a pair of lovely eyes.

 

“If it’s all the same to you,” he finally says, quietly and again with that faint smile, “I would prefer to call you by your name.”

 

“Perhaps it isn't all the same and I prefer to be called a serpent. Did you think of that?” Dorian counters. But he finally turns to face his new acquaintance fully, tipping his head in mockery of proper etiquette. “Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous, but currently of Skyhold's desperate library.”

 

He is met with an enormous hand extended before him. It appears amicable enough. Hopefully the knife undoubtedly hidden beneath the mercenary’s sleeve won’t make an appearance, Dorian thinks with great optimism as he takes the hand. Or lets it swallow his own as they clasp. Semantics.

 

“Adaar of the Valo-Kas,” he says, all friendly and cordial in nature. It won’t last forever, Dorian knows, but perhaps it might be interesting as long as it does.


	2. Chapter 2

Then again, perhaps it begins like this: There‘s something off about his nook, and Dorian can‘t put his finger on it. 

 

Nothing is missing, upon further inspection, which is par for the course; nothing is ever missing. He could chalk it up to low southern literacy rates, or the more likely suspicion among Skyhold's charming occupants that Tevinter territory is cursed ground. Whatever the reason, the peace and quiet it reaps suits him just fine.

 

For a moment he considers the possibility that Sera could have moved everything an inch to the left again - but no, it isn’t that. Not that she’s too proud to pull the same ridiculous prank twice, but there are no scuff marks on the stone beneath his chair, and it isn’t the same sort of grating, chafing off-ness.

 

The titles of the books gold, however, are curiously easy to read, even when he is not holding the spine mere inches from his face. 

 

It is then he notices the candles. They flicker innocently enough around the ring of the library, but now that he has taken notice, he sees that they burn thrice as brightly as ever. Or, perhaps it is not that they burn brighter, but that there are simply three times as many as there had been when he’d retired the night before.

 

Fiona wanders to his side when Dorian leans over the bannister to see if Leliana in her tower of secrets has received the same treatment. 

 

“I don’t suppose your Tranquil took the initiative for this improvement,” Dorian says, and the former Grand Enchanter quietly laughs. 

 

“They did not,” she confirms, long fingers curled around the polished wood, “but Minaeve did notice a curious figure slip away when she came to light the candles this morning to find them already lit.” 

 

“Was this figure wearing a hat with a brim wider than its shoulders?” he asked, and found himself surprised when she shook her head.

 

“Not quite. Allegedly, however, it did have horns.”

 

“Horns, you say.”  

 

“Horns, she said.”

 

“Interesting.” He offers Fiona a dazzling smile that she could make out a little easier in the cozy little tower now, thanks to their candle smuggler. “Perhaps we should make a list of further renovations for homebody horns. Interior decoration should be our next priority.”

 

Fiona pushes away from the bannister. “Indeed.” She smiles with a wry sort of charm and gestures toward the stairwell. “Should you find our mutual friend before I, do give him my thanks for his generous donation.”

 

As luck would have it, he did find _horns_ later in the evening. Several pairs of them, in fact, crowding a few tables at the Herald’s Rest. Cards and coin litter them all, but most eyes are on the center-most table where the Chargers’ Lieutenant sits facing the most enormous woman Dorian’s ever seen. Cremisius is backed by what appears to be most of the Iron Bull’s retinue of mercenaries, urging him on and goading the woman across from him in turns. She doesn’t appear to hear them at all, nor the equally raucous hoard of qunari behind her. 

 

It takes a moment for Dorian to tear his eyes away from the extraordinary curve of her horns capped with wicked points to search for a familiar face. It appears to have found him first; Adaar is in the middle of standing up from his perch on the table behind the woman, focused entirely on Dorian. 

 

A roar comes over the spectators, and the qunari woman’s marble facade cracks enough for the corner of her mouth to quirk up in a smirk as she collects her winnings. Adaar ducks under two of his kith where their tankards crash together in celebration of a victory not even their own, and miraculously only a little whiskey spills on his shoulder. He pays the stain no mind as he approaches Dorian.

 

“Quite a party you’ve got here,” Dorian says, peering pointedly over Adaar’s shoulder. It doesn’t escape Adaar’s notice that he has to stand on tiptoe to do so. His fetching eyes dance with mirth as he turns briefly to watch Rocky take Cremisius’ place. The veritable warrior goddess tilts her head ever so slightly to the side and the deadly golden caps wink in the firelight. She narrows her eyes and Dorian can see a slight flush creep over the dwarf’s face when he lowers his hood before Adaar has reclaimed his attention with a question.

 

“Care to join us?” he is asking. Dorian would hardly call himself a coward, but diving head-first into a gaggle of qunari is something he’d prefer to be more of a gradual experience. A pair of them are looking their way from behind the game. Before Dorian can muster up the courage to accept the invitation, Adaar must read something on his face, because he offers, “It’s a bit loud. The bar’s probably quieter. Are you drinking?”

 

“Am I drinking,” Dorian scoffs, and Adaar brightens when Dorian leads the way to the counter. “What a question. I’ll have you know, I single-handedly drained this fine establishment of all the brandy to its name, and - ah, you look more concerned than impressed, perhaps I shouldn’t go on.”

 

Adaar’s open expression twists to sheepishness. He gestures toward a stool for Dorian to sit and orders before Dorian can open his mouth, sliding a few coppers over to the long-suffering barkeep. Dorian gives him a sidelong glance. 

 

“Whatever are you trying to butter me up for?” Dorian asks, leaning forward onto his elbows. It gives Adaar the most perfect view of his bare shoulder, and if he tilts his head just so, it bares his neck in one long, graceful line. There it is like clockwork - the flicker of Adaar’s gaze over the playful attention drawn to Dorian’s dark skin, before his eyes are firmly back on Dorian’s. 

 

Dorian has never known a man of Adaar’s size to pull off such sincere contriteness with his eyes alone. It’s really quite extraordinary.

 

“It’s just a drink, Dorian,” he says, and the sentiment - or lack thereof - is softened by the smile on his face. Dorian tilts his head forward the scantest inch, but this time Adaar’s gaze does not waver. 

 

“No such thing,” Dorian counters, waving his hand as if to banish the notion entirely. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you? There’s no such thing as charity. Even chantry mothers have their agendas. Certainly no one would go offering pints out of the goodness of their hearts alone. Or, for that matter, a tower’s-worth of candles.” Adaar’s eyes go round and Dorian sits up sharply, triumphant. “I _knew_ it was you!”

 

Adaar’s lips part in surprise before he huffs out a quiet laugh, taking the drinks proffered by the dour barkeep. At great personal expense, Dorian ignores his brandy for the moment, rather content to watch Adaar’s bashful countenance under his scrutiny. “You act as though I’ve caught you with your trousers down. Mind you, that wouldn’t be the _worst_ way to catch you off guard, but that's neither here nor there. What do you have to say for yourself, my dear candle vigilante?”

 

Taking a long pull of his drink, Adaar effectively stalls for a moment before he lets the mug fall. Absently, he thumbs at a drop of liquor at the corner of his mouth before he answers, “The lighting in the library is poor.” Dorian pointedly raises his eyebrows and Adaar continues, a little questioning furrow in his brow, “And it was easy enough to make it less poor, but nobody else was doing it.”

 

“So you did.”

 

“So I did,” Adaar agrees, shrugging one massive shoulder. He briefly glances down at his drink before lifting his eyes to Dorian’s once more. “Two of the mages admitted to having poor eyesight already, and you mentioned headaches. The candles should help.” 

 

“Where did you even find so many? Did you loot the altar by the garden?” he jests, but Adaar’s wide-eyed silence gives him away. Dorian can’t help but feel a little stunned himself. “Ha!” he laughs, loud enough to draw a few nearby gazes, and the tips of Adaar’s ears go dark. “Have you no sense of piety?” Dorian teases. “No reverence for the Maker’s bride?”

 

“A statue has less need of light than the Inquisition’s archivists,” Adaar says, and from the tone of his voice and the look in his eye, it is clear to Dorian that Adaar wholly believes it. “You have done more good for these people than a stone carving.” 

 

“Heresy,” Dorian chirps. “My, but you picked an interesting operation to work for with such an irreverent heart.”

 

Adaar opens his mouth to speak before it clearly dawns on him that perhaps Dorian might take offense at what could easily become a blasphemous conversation indeed. “I hope it wasn’t too presumptuous of me,” he says instead. 

 

“It was.” Dorian taps a finger against his lips as he feels them curl slowly into a grin. “But don‘t let that stop you.”

 

The corners of Adaar’s eyes have the most charming lines that expose his pleasure better even than the quick flash of teeth as he taps his mug to Dorian’s.

  
“I wasn’t planning to.”


	3. Chapter 3

There's a chance it actually begins like this: It's late, very late, and they're pouring over the most long-winded texts on magisters during the second Blight Dorian's ever seen when Adaar reaches out and absently touches his bottle of rose wine. There's a quiet sort of crackle and a familiar jolt of the arcane that has Dorian's entire body perking up. The entire bottle is coated in a fine layer of frost, and Adaar's fingertips have taken on a faint glow.

 

"You're a mage!"

 

Adaar blinks once, twice, and a sweet sort of befuddlement crosses his face. "I am," he answers plainly, slowly, and Dorian rolls his eyes.

 

"Oh go on. You can't blame me entirely for my surprise; you've got the daggers at your belt, and I've never seen you with a staff."

 

"I'm a mercenary," Adaar reminds him, patting the blades at his side. "You learn to be a deft hand in several skill sets in our line of work. I could wield a broadsword if the  situation called for it."

 

Dorian makes no secret of the way he eyes Adaar's physique, just as Adaar makes no secret of the shameless display he makes by just existing. "I'll _bet_ you could."

 

"Though," Adaar continues, rubbing the back of his neck, "I haven't any skill at swordplay," and Dorian's mouth falls open before he can stop himself.

 

" _Stop_. You'll break my heart with talk like that."

 

It dawns on Adaar slowly before he snorts, his shove at Dorian's shoulder a playful one.

 

"You don't go walking around with your staff out -"

 

"Certainly not!"

 

" - at Skyhold."

 

"Yes, alright, point taken. Still." Dorian does not pout. He _simpers_. "You might have told me."

 

"I wasn't trying to keep it a secret." The words are apologetic where they could have been indignant, even teasingly so, and Dorian tuts him for it.

 

"And yet a secret was kept nonetheless! Never mind. We'll find some way for you to make it up to me, I'm sure."

  
Adaar reaches out to give Dorian's brandy an icy little zap, and Dorian nods. "That's certainly a start."


	4. Chapter 4

“It begins like -”

 

“Kaariss.”

 

“Just hear me out! I‘ve already got the first lines of a sonnet composed for you -”

 

“Stitch your damn mouth, fool.” Shokrakar tosses a couple silver pieces onto the table, doubling Bull‘s wager. Bull grins slyly her way, but she manages to exude a completely disinterested aura to him and exasperation toward Kaariss with a single flick of her gaze. “Adaar‘s too soft to say it, but nobody wants you interfering with their sex affairs.”

 

“ _That‘s_ a matter of opinion,” Bull says, meeting the wager and raising his tankard in Kaariss‘ direction with a wink. What seems to be a wink, anyway. Considering the eyepatch, it's rather a matter of charisma over physical evidence. Kaariss is flustered, regardless.

 

“It‘s not -” Adaar tries, but Shokrakar waves him off.

 

“Not another word. You give him this, you go off to make eyes at your human in the tower, and the rest of us have to listen to him go through all the stages of his... _artistic process_. That includes the crying.”

 

“He has a sensitive soul,” Tully deadpans before Kaariss can say it, and the Iron Bull chokes on his ale. Katoh claps him on the back sympathetically.

 

Adaar watches Shokrakar‘s eyes narrow when Bull draws, readjusts his hand, and raises his next wager to four silver. Katoh‘s sympathy turns to sick amusement as quickly as anything. “If you‘re not bluffing, she‘ll feed you the rest of your fingers,” she says gleefully, and Bull looks entirely unconcerned about it.

 

He _is_ bluffing, and he gets to keep his fingers. Katoh looks a little put out about it. Shokrakar looks significantly less put out about the coin she drags across the table to add to her pile. Bull, oddly enough, looks pleased with himself about losing so much of it to her. Adaar does have to admit, she is the loveliest when she‘s radiating smug satisfaction at a slaughter.

 

Kaariss pulls him aside some time later, when the sun is falling over the Frostbacks and casting everything in a fiery glow. Outside the Herald‘s Rest, Shokrakar isn‘t there to act as a buffer to his soulful eyes, and Adaar has already given in before Kaariss says a word. _Weak_ , he hears Tully tut in the back of his mind.

 

“Alright,” he says as Kaariss opens his mouth to plead. Holding up a hand before Kaariss can stutter his delight, Adaar continues, “but if you‘re going to bounce ideas or... anything off of anyone, make it the Iron Bull. For all our sakes.”

 

The grin Kaariss gives him is all teeth. “Brother, that is not a condition; that‘s incentive.”

 

“I didn‘t realize you needed more incentive than...”

 

“A romantic soul?” Kaariss supplies.

 

“Nosiness.”

 

“I don‘t, but I imagine this condition will make the process all the more pleasant for me,” Kaariss hums, and then smirks. “Much in the way you like your books, but it doesn‘t hurt to have a pretty mage in your periphery when you read them.”

 

Adaar concedes to his point and waves him back inside when Katoh‘s voice carries through the door with her open invitation to a game of Wicked Grace. “Take your time with the poetry,” Adaar advises. “Dorian will survive without it for a while yet.”

 

“You cannot rush art, brother,” Kaariss agrees, levelling him with a look before he ducks back into the roaring tavern.

 

Adaar‘s eyes rove over the camp - at the soldiers training in the yard, and the sun setting over the mountains, and the stained glass of the keep proper. And the small window, high on the tower where candlelight flickers and magic bursts, warm and welcoming from within.

 

The dwarf in the main hall with the Diamondback skill to rival Shokrakar’s gives him a wink on his way past, and the elven mage turns from his painting to exchange a polite smile, and at the top of the stairs Adaar finds him. He’s slouched in his chair in that way of his when he isn’t expecting anyone to visit, when he’s too deep into a book, thumb nail between his teeth, long legs sprawled inelegantly before him. He’s squinting to see the text, so absorbed that he hasn’t noticed the sun’s descent, the waning candlelight, or the qunari standing at the entrance of the nook. 

 

Adaar conjures enough wisps of light over Dorian’s head to either alert him to his presence, or to make his reading all the easier. Either purpose would suit Adaar.

 

Dorian’s eyes flicker up to his in surprise before he catches himself, pulling his thumb away and straightening with unapologetic ease like there had never been anything amiss with his posture in the first place. Adaar tries to hide his smile, but it is a challenge. “Good book?”

 

“Terrible,” Dorian answers, all but tossing it onto a nearby pile. “It’s shocking, how few Tevinter tomes can be found at the top of a mountain in the middle of no where. Seven. In all of Skyhold, seven Tevinter texts. Disgraceful, when you consider our enemy. And if that weren’t enough,” he waves in the vicinity of the dangerously teetering pile, “four of  those are corner market romance novels. Who’s bringing Tevinter smut into Skyhold, you ask? When you find out, do let me know. I’d like to hit them over the head with my staff a few times until I’ve rattled loose the terrible taste from inside. Did you need something?”

 

He stands, almost as an afterthought, and Adaar takes a small step to meet him. “Kaariss - my kith -”

 

“The rotund one with the charred horns?” Dorian inquires, cocking his head the barest inch. “Always bursting into song?”

 

“That’s Kaariss. He’s a poet, believes himself a bard. I thought you should know he’s writing a sonnet about… well, you.”

 

“Me?” Dorian’s fingertips flutter to his lips before he tilts his head back, waving his hand with a flourish. “Naturally, a poet would be inclined to capture my charm in verse.”

 

“Naturally,” Adaar agrees. “I just thought you ought to know; I wouldn’t want you to feel uncomfortable hearing him start up a tune about you in the tavern in front of the entire Inquisition. If it makes you uneasy, I’ll ask him to stop.”

 

“On the contrary! I’m eager to hear what he has to write - and indeed why he has anything to write at all.” His gaze is shrewd, and the knowing curl to the corners of his mouth send heat creeping up the back of Adaar’s neck. He hopes the glow of the wisps doesn’t illuminate his darkening ears. 

 

“He finds our… our friendship inspiring.”

 

“Does he?” Dorian’s voice is hardly more than a murmur, and his gaze is too intense to avoid. “And how inspiring do _you_ find our... friendship?”

 

Tully once told Adaar that his greatest tell was the damnable hand that always found its way to the back of Adaar’s neck whenever he felt abashed. He’d done his best to train the habit out of Adaar by delivering swift knocks to his arm whenever he made to reach for his neck. Adaar barely hides his flinch now when he catches himself rubbing the base of his scalp, his body tensed and ready for a blow. But Tully isn’t here, and Dorian seems more interested in staring Adaar into confession than hitting him. 

 

“I’m not a poet,” he says, forcing his hand back to his side.

 

The intensity of Dorian’s eyes subsides when he laughs, a quiet thing. “Nor am I. Still, I think I understand.”

 

“You do?”

 

Dorian grins. “Certainly. There’s you - guileless, optimistic, large enough to tear a swooning mage in half - and there’s me - a witty, handsome snake in the grass, dazzling you into a false sense of security with my stunning good looks and my wicked, wicked words. A relationship easily twisted into the comic or the tragic, depending on the writer.”

 

Adaar finds his footing again in the quiet of the tower, a little voice in the back of his mind noting that the sun has finally set. “Kaariss is a romantic.”

 

“Well then,” Dorian says with a pause for himself, or for Adaar’s consideration, or for effect, or for all three. “This should be very interesting indeed.”


	5. Chapter 5

There‘s a chance it begins like this: Adaar is leaving, and Dorian is not. At the Inquisitor‘s behest, Josephine has dispatched him to an eccentric Nevarran noble in Val Royeaux for protection and assistance during diplomatic talks.

 

“Yeah,” Tully says, all but slamming a pint before him. Much of it splashes on the table, but Tully has the reflexes and the decency to drop a handkerchief in the mess before it can sully Dorian‘s robes. “We usually pick him for the talky jobs, too. Got a way with words, Adaar does.”

 

Kaariss visibly deflates beside Tully, his great shoulders slumping until Katoh elbows him sharply in the side. “No head for poetry, though.”

 

“Doesn‘t need one,” Shokrakar says at the head of the table, examining the serrated edge of a blade so sharp Dorian fears staring at it too long may damage his eyes.   


“I wouldn’t imagine mercenaries have very many diplomatic duties to attend to,” Dorian says, sipping at what’s left of his bitter, bitter ale. He wrinkles his nose at the taste to maintain the quiet, subtle facade that he doesn’t like the stuff.

 

Taarlok huffs beside him, the stump where his right arm ends at the elbow nudging Dorian’s shoulder.

 

“You’re half right,” he says, swirling the wine in his glass around with his left hand before taking a healthy gulp. When he grins, his teeth are stained purple. “Get plenty of contracts sent our way -”

 

“Mostly ‘cause human nobles figure we’re intimidating-lookin’ enough to get the job done without much talking,” Katoh snorts from behind Kaariss.

 

“And they’re usually correct,” Tully says dryly, making eyes at the dagger in Shokrakar’s hands in a way that makes Dorian believe it might be his.

 

“ -but,” Taarlok continues in his precise accent Dorian thinks he recognizes from Par Vollen, his glass emptied by the next long swallow, “we don’t often take them. The people who want killing, or smuggling, or intimidating, or escorting, or blowing shit up - those contracts are very straight-forward. The diplomats, though.” He bares his purple teeth when Tully reaches across with a bottle pulled from nowhere and tops his glass up. “They like to twist things around with their words. Hide stuff in their contracts around fancy terms and frivolity dressed up as good manners, proper people speak, you know. Think we don’t have the brains in our heads to pick apart their bullshit.”

 

“That’s why we have you,” Shokrakar says, flipping the knife and handing it hilt-first to Tully. “To sniff that shit out like a hound.”

 

“Sometimes it ain’t shit, though,” Katoh pipes up, “and that’s what we have Adaar for.”

 

Dorian taps a finger on the table just to hear the dull thud of his rings. “And what you lent him to Ambassador Montilyet for, in this case.”

 

Tully starts to respond, but there’s a great noise at the bar as the Chargers burst into song for what must be the fourth time this evening. Half of the Valo-Kas grumble and harrumph at the display, particularly when the ale begins to slosh from the Chargers' raised glasses and Cabot retreats to the back store room to avoid the noise and, more importantly, the mess.

 

One verse is apparently enough for Shokrakar, because as the second picks up, she slams her empty mug to the table and stands, towering over two awestruck serving girls and Maryden as she makes her way to the bar. As far as Dorian can tell, she doesn’t say a word, but half the Chargers strangle themselves into silence when she cuts through them to stand at the counter with her empty tankard in hand. The rest peter out in confusion when their companions shout to retrieve Cabot and make believe they aren’t all half-coated in ale and sweat from training. Bull makes a remark at Rocky over the din when he slaps down a couple pieces of silver and absconds with a bottle from behind the bar himself. Dorian doesn’t catch what he says, but whatever it is makes the dwarf’s face go red and sends Dalish into peals of laughter.

 

Yet Rocky seems more than pacified from the blow to his pride when Shokrakar goes to depart with her hand curled around his shoulder for a brief squeeze. At least five of them watch her slow return to the table, and Bull’s laughter could reach the rafters, but it is hard to tell if Shokrakar is pleased with anything beyond the free liquor in hand.

 

Dorian lifts his own mug to her, though the rest act as though this is not an abnormal occurrence. Likely, it isn’t. “If not for a few… obvious setbacks,” he says, “the machinations of the Imperium might suit you very well.”

 

“Or the Grand Game, at the very least,” Tully snorts into his mug.

 

“Isn’t it called the Great Game?” Katoh asks, her bejeweled brow furrowed.

 

Shokrakar pulls the cork of the bottle out in one easy pull with her claws. “Does it matter?” she asks, offering it up. The company briskly down whatever drink they have left in their hands and slide the empty glasses and mugs down the table to her.

 

Dorian cradles his own against his chest. This is far from the first time he’s shared a table with the Valo-Kas, and it isn’t even the first time he’s done so without familiar-faced Adaar by his side, but he knows better than to presume. Enough of the Valo-Kas are true Tal-Vashoth, spent enough of their lives under the Qun to harbor reasonable wariness with the noble-born Tevinter mage in their midst.

 

Dorian is welcome because Adaar welcomed him; he has no illusions to having earned their camaraderie of his own merit.

 

So it is to his great surprise when Shokrakar lifts her chin toward him, eying his glass.

 

“You gonna nurse that all night, or are you too good to accept free liquor, little death mage?” she asks and taps the bottle once against the table.

 

It only takes a beat, but Dorian has never been know to have trouble finding words. “Maker forbid you find reason to accuse me of such an obscenity,” he says with the appropriate indignation before setting his glass before her.

 

It’s good. Crisp and sweet with an undercurrent of spice, and Katoh says it before he can ask: “Adaar loves this brand. He’ll be destroyed when he finds out we had some without him. Kaariss gets to tell him.”

 

Kaariss makes a noise of protest, and Katoh clocks him on the shoulder. It’s easy enough to tune out their rising squabble when Shokrakar meets his eyes from down the table. She lifts the bottle for a few long, deep swallows before rolling it to him empty.

 

Taarlok’s elbow nudges his shoulder, and Dorian waves him off before committing the label to memory and finishing his drink.

 

It’ll be the last of the evening; he intends to savor it in good company.

  


☙❧

  


A scant few weeks pass, and Adaar returns from Val Royeaux dirty, weary, and practically glowing with the air of a job well done. Dorian isn’t so over-eager as to greet him at the gate, but he figures an hour after the small procession arrives is wait enough for Adaar to come to him instead. Just because Dorian’s never had to be the one to find Adaar first before doesn’t mean he can’t start now.

 

He has no intention of making a public spectacle of his own for… whatever this is, so he keeps to himself along the less inhabited paths of the courtyard and up the stone stairs to the mercenary quarters. Admittedly, he is a little surprised to see Adaar’s room empty after so long a journey. From what Dorian saw from the window, Adaar looked dead on his feet entering the keep; a mountain climb would do that to any reasonable person, regardless of muscle mass.

 

Still, Dorian’s big enough to confess his disappointment - and a touch of relief - when he sets the bottles quietly on Adaar’s windowsill. There are only two, but in his defense, two was all that were left behind the bar. Cabot had sworn an oath to it. It was a strange number of bottles to give a person - one would have been too few, and three would have been perfectly generous, but two is an awkward, floundering number of gifts to give.

 

He‘s thinking too much, and it‘s time to go. It wouldn‘t do to be caught dawdling aimlessly in Adaar‘s quarters like Dorian‘s waiting around for him to appear.

 

It only takes a moment to take in the room in its entirety. It houses two entire people, which takes a moment‘s consideration, for if you asked him five years ago, it would have been an insult to suggest a room this size could house all his shoes alone. Adaar confesses that having a roommate like Katoh is like having no roommate at all, for how often she manages to find other beds to fill.

 

When he’d said it, Adaar had sounded almost lonely. Dorian remembers how he almost hadn’t managed to keep himself from offering his own quarters to share, if Adaar didn’t like the quiet.

 

It’s a daily struggle, Dorian has come to find. Not nearly the struggle he seems to be having leaving the cramped space with its two long beds shoved against opposite walls, with a ramshackle table between topped, naturally, by a single ale bottle holding a long-withered neckful of wildflowers.

 

A pity Katoh never refreshed them, though Dorian has no doubt Adaar will tend to his makeshift vase once he’s slept through his travel exhaustion.

 

He’s caught in the middle of a fond grin by a shadow falling from the open doorway and a gravelly, dazed, “Dorian?”

 

“Oh, have you returned?” Dorian says, spinning slowly on his heel for the proper effect. “I hadn’t noticed. I don’t have the best view of the gates from my window, you see, and even if I did, you're far too diminutive to spot from a distance." He pauses for a beat when Adaar only manages a little smile. "Alright. We’re both going to pretend I’m not having a laugh at your expense, because you clearly haven’t the wherewithal to appreciate it.” Adaar blinks slowly, stepping further into the room. Dorian goes to meet him with the smallest step and pats his massive chest. “Let’s save the tearful reunion for after you’ve had your rest. There’s a gift for you when you wake. Try not to let your kith bully you into sharing if you’d like them for yourself.”

 

He makes to move around Adaar for a quick escape, but sneakability is minimal at best in tight spaces like this, and Adaar has already spotted the alcohol on the sill. When he goes to examine them for himself, Dorian has the perfect opportunity for a getaway, but finds himself curiously attached to the floorboards.

 

“This is my favorite Rivaini cider,” Adaar says, the dark circles under his eyes doing nothing to hide their wideness. He looks up at Dorian, flummoxed. “How did you know?”

 

“Let’s just say, a flock of enormous birdies told me.”

 

It takes a moment, but little by little, Adaar’s bewildered expression turns soft. “Dorian,” he says, low voice drawing deep into the brittle cockles of Dorian’s chest. “Thank you.”

 

“Well,” Dorian says. Throws a hand to the side to distract with theatrics while he scrounges for something witty to say and comes up with nothing at all. “Well. Right. Isn’t it time you got some rest? You look dreadful.”

 

Adaar’s quiet laugh does nothing for his irritating, thrumming nerves, but Adaar acquiesces as he should.

 

“I’ll see you this evening.” It isn’t a question or an invitation, but Dorian knows that whether he chooses to stay in his library or delve into the ruckus and stench of the tavern, he will not be alone.

 

“Right. Make sure to bathe before you do,” Dorian says, skirting around him toward the doorway.

 

Very little takes Dorian by surprise anymore, and certainly not the little, “I will,” that follows him as he leaves.

 

“Good,” Dorian says, awkward and stunted, and flees. He doesn’t know why he’s fleeing, but there is no better word for the way he all but flies down the stairs to the courtyard. It’s a strange thing, too, considering he’d be more than happy enough to stay right there with Adaar while he falls into bed to catch up on the proper sleep he’s lost all these weeks.The room is tiny, but it's warm, and tidy, and filled with sunlight, and Adaar is there.

  
Well. Perhaps Dorian does know why he’s fleeing after all.


	6. Chapter 6

It certainly doesn‘t begin like this: The Inquisition attends a party, and its plus one is the entire army. The advisors are in attendance as well, and accompanying the Inquisitor is the innermost circle of companions. They likely make up half of the attendance, but as the Commander’s men are uniformed with discretion, the nobility is not privy to that unsettling bit of information.

 

Yet. The night is still young, and knowledge like that is valuable currency in the maws of the Game.

 

Halamshiral is too lovely for words, and it‘s everything Dorian has always admired and detested in turn. The Orlesians play their Game with the same delight as his peers in Tevinter. It feels as though any of the women milling about the garden will remove their masks to reveal his mother‘s face, come to scold him for his posture (perfect), or his attire ( _uniform_ , and not his decision), or how stiffly he sets himself apart from the upper echelons of Orlesian society (wholly necessary for the mission and his relative sobriety).

 

And then there is the matter of the large man nearing him from the garden doors - practically the finest company at the ball, second only to Dorian - who would have had her spitting acid like a coastal spider.

 

“Not that I‘m complaining, mind you, but I‘m fairly certain you have more pressing matters to attend to.”

 

Adaar smiles and takes Dorian‘s hand - the one not currently cradling his third glass of spicy punch. “Probably,” he agrees, and tips a small handful of coins into Dorian‘s palm. Dorian is too busy examining the gold to protest when Adaar takes his glass and places it on the tray of a passing serving girl.

 

“Caprice coins?” Dorian hums, shifting them in his grasp to hear them clink heavily against one another. “I‘ve changed my mind; I am going to complain now, because you most certainly have more important things to do.” He sniffs peevishly in the direction of his missing drink. “You’re a mercenary, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you be fishing our interloper out with the Inquisitor?”

 

“I‘m on it,“ Adaar assures him with a little half smile. It really is rather distressing how he manages to be so charming when he‘s sheepish. “I only thought you might like to throw these into the fountain.”

 

“On what grounds were these assumptions made? Is it because of my noble upbringing? We‘re all wasteful, decadent fops prone to frivolity, is that it?”

 

Adaar‘s gloved fingers brush over his wrist. “I thought you might like something to pass the time. Nobody seems to be plotting anything sinister here, so it must get awfully boring.”

 

“And tossing these into that fountain there is bound to fill so much time.” He narrows his eyes and hopes the shape his mouth is taking of its own accord is more smirk than silly smile. “You just wanted an excuse to come see me.”

 

The Vashoth’s quiet laugh is nearly swallowed up by the tittering gossip of the nobles in the garden and the Orlesian bard‘s ditty. Dorian is standing too close to him to miss it. “Perhaps,” he allows, closing Dorian‘s fingers over the handful of coins. His hand lingers, a gentle pressure over Dorian‘s fist. “Make a wish for me, or... whatever humans do when they throw money away.”

 

“If you notice the spontaneous combustion of those dreadful masks, you‘ll know my wishes have come true,” Dorian tells him cheerfully. A scandalized cacophony of whispers erupt nearby, and Dorian sighs. “I‘ve changed my mind again. Nothing in the world could be more important than you planting yourself right here for the rest of the evening. You make for a dashing shield against vapidity.”

 

“We won’t be long,” Adaar says, glancing toward the trellis. “The Inquisitor’s in the library gathering information. Hopefully we’ll have a real lead soon and we won’t have to wait around much longer.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dorian says, with his most winning smile. “It’s not so bad, really. The view has increased considerably in the last few minutes.”

 

The whispers are endless, but for the moment at least, Dorian simply doesn’t care.

 

“Let’s throw these in, shall we?” he says, and the coins clink against his palm when they shift in his grasp. Adaar’s answering smile is too indiscreet for the Orlesian court. Dorian takes him by the arm, and hopes it will always be so.

 

☙❧

  


It is a rare moment to see him again in the hours to follow. Adaar does not join them when the Inquisitor comes calling, and when Dorian wanders the halls in the interim, he does not find him there.

 

“For someone so large, he’s very good at sticking to shadows,” he says to Cole when the spirit takes to joining him for a short time. Cole’s only insight on the matter is,

 

“Watching and waiting. Quiet, it’s too quiet. Maybe ominous. Perhaps wanting to be somewhere not-here. The garden smells like heavy summer air and expensive perfume. His mouth is red from the fragrant punch. It probably tastes sweet.”

 

“Now, what have I said about prying minds?” Dorian asks, suddenly feeling a little too warm beneath the collar of his uniform.

 

“Nothing,” Cole says with a little tilt of the head.

 

“Well then, whatever Varric’s told you. Good advice, I should hope.”

 

“Oh.” Cole looks up for a moment as they pause in the vestibule. “Not even if it’s something you want to hear?”

 

“Especially then,” Dorian hastens to say, steering Cole away by the elbow from the pair of tipsy Orlesians on a set path to collide with him.

 

“People will know these things in time, if they need to,” Cole says with a smile. “That’s what Varric says.”

 

“A man wise beyond his height. Now. Will you carry on, or would you care to join me in the garden?”

 

They turn around, “He thought you were lonesome alone. Ah! But he told you so, so you already knew.”

 

“He told me _something_ ,” Dorian allows, sidestepping a serving girl with a distraught look about her. Cole cranes his neck back to watch her without discretion, but Dorian claps him on the back to draw him from his reverie. “At any rate, you can certainly try the spicy punch to see what it's like for yourself.”

 

“It isn’t the punch alone he considered, but - you will know these things in time. If you need to.”

 

Dorian’s mouth doesn’t twist in a grimace, but he’s sure Cole can still feel it. Somehow. “A pity and a comfort, all.”

 

☙❧

  


The Inquisitor ignites drama in the court with a ruling that shakes them, and as the nobility buzzes with whispers and gasps at the theatrical reveal of the Grand Duchess’ plot, a hand comes to rest at Dorian’s shoulder.

 

He thinks, Finally, and turns to tell his new companion as much, but comes to find… not at all who he was expecting. A man, and if Dorian recalls the mask correctly, who’d been in the gardens much of the evening with a friend. Dorian had felt the lingering glances, and had humored them with a catch of the eyes once, but only once. In Minrathous, it was the perfect number; not as insulting as total ignorance, or as coy as two looks in the way that spoke of interest. He’d thought himself perfectly clear.

 

“Now is the perfect time to slip away,” comes a voice by his ear, rich and low and most certainly Nevarran. His eyes are a lovely dark shade of brown, and the skin of his neck not much lighter. Dorian feels _interest_ , but finds that he is not _interested._ “If you were of a mind.”

 

Once, he would have been. Not a year ago, he would have happily dallied in the garden with this dark stranger and his lovely voice. He’d seen thirteen dark alcoves perfect for such a tryst just on the way in from the grand apartments.

 

Now, though, he sees a pair of horns towering over the advisors’ heads across the room, bent to listen closely to whatever knowledge the spymaster and ambassador have to offer while Cullen directs his men. Quite vexing indeed, how little Dorian wants to be led from the room for what promises to be a very fine time with a very handsome man, when it compares to…. other things. Tamer things. The dance Adaar had requested before departing from the gardens for the last time. A quiet moment to examine whatever wound Solas had gone to see to earlier in the evening and been perfectly vague about in the hours since. An opportunity to guide him away from the unsettled expressions of the vapid nobles around him, casting judgment where it does not belong. And perhaps to reveal how sweet the drinks are, just to sate his curiosity.

 

Not nearly so exciting as dalliance with a stranger in the Winter Palace, but infinitely more appealing.

 

“I’m afraid I’m not,” Dorian says, apologetic only because it is a shame, “but the gentleman in the corner there with the red cap has been eying you in the garden all evening. Were I a gambling man - and I am - I would place my wager on his interest.”

 

Dorian can’t see a smile behind the mask, but he hears a little laughter before his admirer spirits himself away in good humor. Presumably to make good on the other gentleman’s attention. He wishes them all the best and pushes himself away from the bannister to take advantage of the court’s preoccupation himself.

 

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the Inquisitor’s display, and sense of dramatic timing, and ultimate verdict; only that he’s seen her make grander gestures, and he’s certain he’ll see more. There are more pressing matters to attend to.

 

☙❧

 

“A Venatori mage?” Dorian hisses in the privacy of the balcony. The light from the ballroom isn’t enough to see all the details of Adaar’s face, even this close, but the jagged mark along his jaw is hard miss when Dorian takes his chin in hand and turns his head to the side. Adaar allows it of him, and even slows their dance to what is barely a sway, even when Dorian lets him go. “You were alone!”

 

“I wasn’t attacked,” he says with a tone meant to soothe, but only pricks at Dorian’s ire. “I caught him off guard from behind and broke his neck. His magic reacted to his shock in the split second before he was dead, and the magic clipped me. It was weak.”

 

“Not so weak it didn’t take a chunk out of you,” Dorian argues, mouth set in a firm line. “It could have torn your head off, and no one would have been around to piece you back together.”

 

“But it didn’t,” Adaar says, taking Dorian’s fretful hand back in his to slowly turn him about the balcony. “And Solas healed the worst of it.”

 

“It will scar,” Dorian says with certainty, peering at the angry red line of it. He sighs, letting himself go a little lax in Adaar’s arms, his right hand slipping from a shoulder to rest on Adaar’s bicep. “It’ll be rugged, which is perfectly unsuitable for a face like yours.”

 

Adaar breathes out a quiet laugh and squeezes his hand. “Kaariss demanded I bring a good story back from the ball. At least I’ll have one.”

 

“You might want to embellish on it a bit. Give him something to write about that isn’t, I killed a man and his weapon nicked me entirely by accident.”

 

“You’d do better with that than I would.”

 

“And so I might!”

 

Adaar’s hand is warm, even through the uniform, and it presses solidly against Dorian’s back. It is a pleasant alternative to, say, one or both of them dying for the sake of Orlesian politics. It’s a low bar to set, considering most things are exactly that. Even so, Dorian squeezes Adaar’s hand back, and keeps him dancing even after the music stops.


	7. Chapter 7

But maybe it begins like this: Wildflowers on his chair, innocent as anything. They rest atop the cushion casually, as if they have always been there - as if they weren‘t meant to give Dorian pause in front of all the Tranquil and a quietly observant Grand Enchanter. The very same Grand Enchanter who merely smiles when Dorian turns to look her way, the inquiry on his tongue dying almost as soon as it rises.

 

He knows precisely who to blame for the carefully arranged bouquet; to ask would be as insulting as it is unnecessary. Dorian turns to the window to hide his smile from the room at large. It isn‘t for them to see, what this silly little gesture does to him against his better judgment.

 

The blossoms are white, their petals soft, and the fragrance sets his foolish heart to dancing. Or maybe that’s a normal reaction to burying one’s face into a sweet little gift, as bashfully and romantically given as he feels to receive it. He doesn’t yet know what he’ll do to show his gratitude - doesn’t know what to do with himself now. Dorian’s never received flowers before; not like this. Not from someone like Adaar.

 

Behind him comes the sound of footsteps on the stairs and he turns - “My, you do have excellent timing-” before he stops himself. The Inquisitor pops into view, quietly amused.

 

“Were you expecting someone?”

 

“You, perhaps,” Dorian says. “As you well know, _any_ time you elect to bask in my presence is good timing on your part.”

 

The Inquisitor‘s smile wanes after a moment, swiftly turning to solemnity. “Dorian.” His name, spoken with some small hesitation. “There‘s a letter you need to see.”

 

☙❧

 

The retinue the Inquisitor chooses for their journey to Redcliffe is a small one. The one waiting outside the Gull and Lantern is smaller still. The Iron Bull lounges on the stone steps, watching curious passersby, and Solas rests with Cole in the shade of the tavern. Dorian does not meet their eyes when they depart. He wants to kill something, and the Inquisitor is more than happy to oblige.

 

But the killing gets old as the days pass, and another restlessness roils in his chest that he doesn’t want to examine, not anymore. There’s yet Inquisition business for their esteemed leader to attend to in the Hinterlands, so he doesn’t mention it. But apparently his emotional turmoil isn’t as discrete as he might have hoped.

 

 

Cassandra is coming to replace him, he’s told by the end of the first week, and the agents she travels with will accompany him back to Skyhold.

 

It is no short wait for travelers from the Frostbacks, but it is one he endures with Cole at his side every moment his guard is low. He deflects questions as best he can with a patience he’s not sure he can maintain for much longer. Dorian tries to distract himself with the perfect line for Cassandra once she arrives - something about bears and how much they’ve missed her - but it does little good with a well-meaning spirit hovering about, unraveling the seams of his heart when he’s only just managed to stitch them back together.

 

He doesn’t want to talk about the love he still feels for his father, and how he cannot stand himself for the loving; he doesn’t want to talk about the betrayal and the loss that takes the world from underneath him; he doesn’t want to talk about the wound so deep, he still isn’t sure it will ever truly heal. And he certainly doesn’t want to talk about how he doesn’t want it to heal, if the hot, hot anger is all that keeps him from freezing with despair.

 

When Cassandra arrives, Dorian doesn’t get the chance to use the line he’s been planning for days and days. Something in him stops and holds when he sees her escorts.

 

The qunari can only just fit comfortably on the Inquisition’s harts, and though Katoh, Tully, and Ashaad stay mounted, Adaar slides down from his and approaches the camp at Cassandra’s back. All the wit and bluster Dorian has felt wearing thin, his greatest line of defense, is lost to him when Adaar leaves Cassandra‘s side to draw near to Dorian.

 

“I do like the look of such a strapping retinue,” Dorian greets him, but his voice is quiet when he yearns for confidence, and Adaar’s expression falls. But he doesn’t call attention to the elephant in the camp; he reaches out to squeeze Dorian’s shoulder before returning to his hart to take it to water with his companions.

 

The Valo-Kas allow their mounts and their sore bodies night of rest to trade information with the Inquisitor and her agents. The scouts and officers are more than a little pleased and awed to have the aid of so many qunari to help them make camp, and for what feels like the first time in weeks, Cole disappears from Dorian’s space. He takes the opportunity to wander a little way from camp to the nearby stream. The tall cliffs and steep hills give Dorian a modicum of privacy as he splashes water on his face and scrubs a hand through his hair.

 

It’s not an enchanted hot underground bath beneath a massive castle, but it serves its purpose.

 

Dorian takes a moment to allow himself to breathe. It’s a little easier now, though he won’t consider why that might be. The Inquisitor comes by, once, head poked around the cliffside to see that he’s still in once piece. She’s a keen one, and merely lifts a hand in greeting before leaving him to his own devices. Her concern is not as intrusive as Cole’s, but it lingers in her tone and under the veneer of lighthearted banter. If his wretched heart can come to conclusions for itself, he knows he will share them with her in the safety of her keep.

 

The sun makes its slow descent over the treetops, and once he has had his fill of solitude, Dorian clasps the robe around his shoulders and picks his way back to camp.

 

Sunset casts the circle of people around the fire in a warm glow, somewhat offset by the roaring laughter from half the camp. Bull’s head is thrown back with it as the Inquisitor tosses a skin of water to one of the scouts, who appears to be choking on his own tongue. The tears streaming down his face have Katoh leaning heavily into Ashaad’s side, both beside themselves with laughter. Tully’s nigh-breakable stone facade has broken, his teeth bared around his pipe in a rakish grin that catches Dorian’s attention for a long moment. He shakes his head and steps up to the circle, keeping his voice light.

 

“What’s this? Torture? Hazing?”

 

“Dinner,” Katoh pants, wiping at an eye with the back of her hand. The smudge khol only makes her beauty fiercer. “Here,” she says, far too lighthearted for his liking - leans forward to fill her own bowl from the pot over the fire before she uncorks a small vial from her pocket with her teeth. She taps a few drops of something dark from within and swirls the bowl around a few times before she shoves it at Dorian.

 

“Katoh.”

 

To Dorian’s left, Adaar sits, staring holes into Katoh’s head. He peers up for a moment at Dorian, who’s taken the bowl out of some newfound obedience. Katoh snorts, slapping herself on the thigh.

 

“Enough with your calf eyes,” she says. “He’s a ‘Vint, remember? He’ll appreciate this.”

 

Dorian peers down into the bowl of what appears to be stew - thick, dark, what he hopes to be safe bits of shrubbery and local wildlife within. “What is it I’m appreciating, exactly?”

 

“Proper food.”

 

“Have a taste,” Tully says, smoke streaming from his nostrils. He looks positively drakonic in the firelight. Adaar, for his part, looks betrayed.

 

Cole hasn’t popped out from a dark corner to warn him away from imminent death, which is enough to counter both Adaar’s concern and the Inquisition officer leaning heavily against the table, staring longingly into the empty waterskin. So Dorian takes a long whiff of the stew for effect before he tips the bowl back into his mouth.

 

It’s spicy, and that… that is an understatement. The inside of his mouth lights ablaze from the first touch, burning every inch of this tongue, and his eyes prickle hotly. There will be no feeling in his lips if he does not stop. But once upon a time, house Alexius had been quite fond of their Antivan imports, and Felix had been of an opinion that true culinary art was only be achieved when a dish could made a man spit fire. If nothing else, Dorian knew how to compose himself while he forced the swallow down.

 

And he knew well enough to take another, lest he be branded some sort of amateur.

 

“What did I tell you,” Katoh said, scuffing her boot against Adaar’s. She’s smug and satisfied, but underneath it all, impressed. Dorian would like to say that doesn’t please him, but old habits die harder than anticipated. “You know what they say about ‘Vint tongues.”

 

Bull is still laughing across the fire, and Adaar protests in a language Dorian doesn’t know.

 

“No, but I’m _dying_ to,” Dorian says, his voice only somewhat ragged. Adaar urgently presses a waterskin into his hand when Dorian takes a seat beside him, though Dorian takes a third bite before he partakes. Pride is a sin he won’t soon neglect.  

 

“Be glad of it,” Adaar tells him, his own empty bowl nestled snugly between his knees.

 

“Spoilsport,” Bull says at the Inquisitor‘s side, a lopsided smirk pulling at his scars. Solas seems quite content with his bowl, so it must be unseasoned, and as far as Dorian knows, Cole still doesn‘t eat. Cassandra is absent from the fire; Dorian assumes she finished her meal and excused herself to slaughter bears, or pray, or crush untoward gentlemen beneath her bootheels. Little Seeker things.

 

The Inquisitor, at least, appears to have wisely avoided the deadly stew. Bull seems keen on remedying this wisdom, turning to goad her into trying it with his own bowl next.

 

“Let me get some more for you,“ Adaar says one his company is likewise preoccupied. He‘s caught Dorian staring dubiously at the bowl in his hands. “No... surprises this time.”

 

”But you know how I love surprises,” Dorian chides him, though he does allow Adaar to take the bowl from him and trade it for a fresh one. It‘s hard to tell which of them is more relieved by this new development. The new bowl is piping hot, but free of Tal-Vashoth-grade death spice, and Dorian vehemently ignores the daggers Katoh stares into the side of his head.

 

Bull‘s plot seems to have worked, as the Inquisitor begins to curse a blue streak across the fire. Her array of swears is extraordinary, and entirely befitting of a former member of the Carta. Even Tully looks impressed, and Bull is grinning from ear to ear. It‘s Solas in the end who takes pity and passes her his water, chastising her mildly for allowing herself to be pulled into their prank while so well aware of  the consequences. She thumps Bull in the chest with the back of her hand, hoarsely cursing his ancestors.

 

With the Inquisitor suffering for their amusement, a bowl of hot stew in his lap, and Adaar at his side in a camp full of laughter, Dorian feels at ease for the first time in weeks.

 

It won‘t last, he knows, but for now... for now, it‘s enough.

 

 

☙❧

 

 

Once they depart, they ride hard over the land, and Dorian isn‘t sorry to see the Hinterlands go. They stop to make camp near Lake Calenhad only when the sun has begun to set over the Frostbacks to the far west. The scouts accompanying them are swift about it, and the pack at Ashaad‘s back contains enough dried foods to sustain the entire Inquisition army for a week. It‘s hardly the hearty meal of the night before, but it suffices when a hunt would be unwise.

 

The rain begins slowly, barely a drizzle, but it is enough to drive them all into their tents for an early night. Dorian bunks with a pair of officers for the first part of the evening, elected for second shift watch. He sleeps so fitfully that it is almost a blessing when he’s nudged awake again an eternity later to take his post.

 

Dorian crawls out of the tent to find the rain stopped, and Adaar building the fire up with his hands. Tully and Ashaad clap him on the shoulders as they pass to their tents, and Adaar nods in turn. He looks up when Dorian wanders close.

 

“I’m feeling a little restless,” Dorian says, gesturing toward the lake. “Care to wander the perimeter?”

 

Adaar follows without pause and without question.

 

Kinloch Hold is a dark and fearsome shape at the center of the lake, and Dorian assumes it remains abandoned. By mages, at least, though he would not put it past a group of opportunistic bandits to seize it now that it remains unguarded.

 

Adaar‘s presence at his side is a silent comfort, which in and of itself is a novelty. He had shared a similar friendship with Felix, once, and it was quaint  then, too; companionable silence, or any silence at all truly isn‘t something Dorian is accustomed to. But he falls into it as long as he can bear it without endless hours of research to distract him.

 

This isn‘t something he relishes telling Adaar. He doesn‘t care to revisit the past, to himself or to anyone. That his past and present would meet like this, when Dorian had hoped (but not expected) the matter resolved by his quick escape, makes secrecy impossible. Only the Inquisitor knows the truth of it - and Cole, though not for Dorian‘s lack of trying.

 

But then there is Adaar, who has seen nothing in his father‘s stare or deep in the recesses of Dorian‘s mind. He knows only what Dorian elects to tell him, whatever Dorian chooses to reveal of himself - whatever he chooses to give.

 

It is an ugly, crooked truth, but it is Dorian‘s truth, and Adaar will listen if he tells it. Dorian doesn't want him to hear it from anyone else.

 

“So, Dorian begins, keeping his eyes on the lake, “I’m sure you've some idea why we're here.”

 

“Our summons weren’t specific,” Adaar says.

 

“No.” Dorian‘s lips twist into a wry sort of smile, though it brings him no pleasure. “I imagine they wouldn‘t be. I didn‘t have a moment to catch you before I left, but even if I had, I‘m not sure I would have told you. But you know we came initially for myself.”

 

“I know only as much as idle gossip would have me believe.” Adaar ducks his head. “If you’d like to tell me, though, I’d prefer the truth of it.”

 

The rocks beneath their feet crunch and crack together with every step they take. Dorian kicks at a few, sends them skittering in all directions.

 

“I remember when I fled Tevinter, and I crossed the Waking Sea. Bartering for passage was nearly impossible with what little I had at my disposal. I had a stone in my boot while I haggled with a merchant for passage on his vessel, much like these. It took an hour of trading insults for a smuggler down the dock to tire of our voices and offer her ship to me instead.”

 

Adaar doesn‘t speak. Dorian wishes he would. But he‘s a silent, patient ear through longer and more pointless diversions than this. His arm bumps against Dorian‘s shoulder, and in a way, it‘s worse than silence. Dorian feels his chest constrict.

 

“I never told you why I left, not really. But perhaps I won’t get a better opportunity. My father was in Redcliffe,” is how he begins. It’s as good a place as any.

 

Dorian tells him of the prestige placed upon the Tevinter elite. He tells him of the restrictions, and the obligations, and the expectations - so many expectations. He tells him of the ones that would never be fulfilled, and why it is because of them he fled his homeland.

 

Dorian doesn‘t know when they stopped walking, only that they have, near a ledge overlooking the lake. Adaar‘s fingers ghost over his wrist like he is too afraid to take hold, but he can‘t help himself entirely. When he opens the little secret hatch in the center of his heart and tells Adaar how his father hoped to remedy Dorian‘s deviant nature, Adaar‘s head turns sharply.

 

“He tried to change you.”

 

Dorian‘s mouth is dry, and he can‘t even bring himself to laugh.

 

“He did. And so naturally, I made a tactical retreat.”

 

Still Adaar does not grab his wrist, but his hand rises to cup Dorian‘s elbow instead. His grip is soft, steadying though Dorian doesn‘t need the support. He finds himself grateful for it all the same.

 

“And he followed you here.”

 

This. This is salt in the wound. The icing on the proverbial body-snatching blood magic cake.

 

“He wrote a letter,” Dorian says, too tired for venom, but it drips from his tongue all the same. “Addressed to Mother Giselle. Their intention was for the revered mother to escort me to Redcliffe herself - imagine!”

 

Adaar doesn‘t seem to feel much like laughing either.

 

“She gave the letter to the Inquisitor, tried to... to arrange the plot in secret. Naturally, being a contrary woman, she came to me with the letter first thing. I cannot begin to tell you how grand the look of shock on my father's face was to see... well.” He reaches up with his opposite hand to pat Adaar‘s knuckles. “A friend.”

 

That‘s a tragic backstory for another time, though. One lonely, pathetic truth at a time should suffice.

 

“What did he want?”

 

“For me to return with him, I suspect. I don‘t know why he‘d think I would. I was not raised to be so foolish as that.”

 

Dorian does not realize his hands are shaking until Adaar releases his elbow to take one. “That‘s quite alright,” Dorian murmurs, but Adaar squeezes once, and he quiets.

 

“You‘re safe now.”

 

Laughter bubbles up in Dorian‘s chest, and he shakes his head. “I don't know if you've noticed the war we're fighting, but that could not be farther from the truth. But I take your point.” He feels tired to his bones, but it's the first time he's laughed in ages - and not even for a joke.

 

“Are you... alright?”

 

Dorian flexes his fingers within Adaar‘s grasp. “No. But I will be. And I - thank you. For listening. You weren‘t there, and I‘m whole and well, but I can feel you fretting, so thank you for that too. It isn‘t exactly a new sensation after spending all this time with Cole, but it‘s certainly... novel. Maker knows what you must think of me now, knowing all of this.”

 

Very suddenly, he finds himself enveloped in a pair of arms the size of pillars, and likely just as sturdy.

 

“I think you‘re very brave,” Adaar says when Dorian finds himself at a loss for words. It does not remedy his speechlessness.

 

“Brave?” he breathes, Adaar‘s cloak bunched tightly in his free fist.

 

“It takes great courage to leave all that you knew, to shed that life and walk your own path.”

 

“Ran, more like,” Dorian corrects him feebly.

 

“Despite all that was done, there is still kindness and courage in you. Your father could not take that away with his scheming or his lies, or the hatefulness that drove him to what he tried to do. There is great strength in that, Dorian.”

 

This is the part where Dorian would pull a line from his ass to turn all attention from the subject at hand, disquieting and far too close to the raw ache in his chest. To lighten the mood, declare the issue done and dusted, ease himself away before his wretched heart saw fit to burst. However, he finds it wildly difficult to deflect within the embrace of a Vashoth.

 

“Oh,” he says, too weakly for propriety’s sake, “and I’d wanted to thank you for the flowers.”

  
Adaar hides his smile in Dorian’s hair like he can’t feel the gentle curve of it.

 

"And I'd wanted to thank you for the cider."

 

"So why is it that we don't feel even?"

 

Adaar's palm at the small of his back is a brand, too hot and too firm for Dorian to concentrate on easing himself away while he still can. "This isn't a competition, Dorian."

 

"That's the problem, isn't it?"

 

A problem that came with a solution, as all problems do. Dorian taps his forehead against Adaar's shoulder and breathes, in and out, and holds for just a moment. Just long enough to pretend that this isn't strange and unheard of - and that despite these things, it feels so natural. Easy. Adaar's hand slides up to cup the back of his neck, and Dorian thinks perhaps he feels it too.

 

A straightforward problem with a simple solution.

 

Adaar calls him brave, but that has yet to be seen. Dorian closes his eyes and believes perhaps he will see it for himself, soon enough.


	8. Chapter 8

But most people would agree that it begins like this: The view from his window is marvelous for a bit of eavesdropping, but the view from the Inquisitor‘s quarters is breathtaking. The mountains paint quite a picture, powerful and serene where they jut up into the endless sky.

 

Dorian joins the Inquisitor here, sometimes. She always has the best liquor hidden away, and she‘s happy enough to share when asked politely. Or when she finds a man wistfully plucking at a lute in his nook, in certain, personal instances.

 

“You looked like you could use this,” she says with an unreasonable amount of cheer, uncorking the bottle with her teeth and topping his glass up with something the color of tar. It smells sharp and tastes overwhelmingly sweet at first, and briny when his mouth has had a moment to adjust. What is left once he swallows makes him think he'll be tasting medicinal herbs and rotgut for hours after they finish. He coughs at the first sip, lips twisting into a grimace. His tongue is tingling to the point of numbness in seconds.

 

“It‘s heinous,” he says, and takes another sip. “And extraordinary.”

 

“Right? Old Legion recipe. Ma was a Legionnaire, before the Carta. Brews it herself, and sends it in crates.”

 

“A care package in its purest form,” Dorian says, clinking their glasses together. The Inquisitor‘s grin is a broad one.

 

“Yeah. We‘re here to talk about your affair with the Vashoth, not my mother.”

 

The liquor flies down his windpipe, and Dorian does his level best not to drop her whiskey tumbler down the roof in his subsequent coughing fit.

 

Finally, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye and meeting her bemused gaze, he croaks, “You‘re being absurd. There is no affair.”

 

“No shit,” she snorts downing half her glass in one gulp. To his eye, the swallow only makes her wince. “That‘s why we cracked open the Legionnaire reserve. Listen, Dorian; I know it‘s not my place -”

 

“It _truly_ isn‘t.”

 

“- but that poet from the Valo-Kas keeps cornering everyone to intimidate them into giving constructive criticism for his sonnets.”

 

Dorian opens his mouth before he shuts it and tries again. “Maker.”

 

“Him too, probably,” she nods. “He‘s written epics about longing gazes and lonely nights and, ah... _size difference_.”

 

Dorian knocks back the rest of his glass and only feels halfway toward death for it. Sportingly, she refills it to the brim. “I‘ve been getting a lot of... complaints,” she continues while he struggles to breathe again. “I've ignored them for the most part because, frankly, it‘s hilarious. But last night, he caught me in the war room. I was serenaded about the virtues of a mercenary‘s dexterity and the tender touch of a mage for at least an hour last night.”

 

“I suppose it‘s too much to hope that you‘d still find it hilarious,” Dorian says weakly to the glass in his hand. The Inquisitor snorts.

 

“That would be the the case, yes. Far be it from me to tell you how and when to resolve your sexual... romantic... poetic tension, Dorian, but...”

 

“Quickly, and now.”

 

Her grin is a bright one. “See, I knew you‘d understand.”

 

“I am a sharp one,” he say, fidgeting where he stands.

 

“You could always kill the bard instead,” Cadash tells him, kindly patting his arm.

 

“It might be far less messy,” Dorian finds himself agreeing. She grimaces.

 

“Whether you‘re making innuendos or talking about feelings, I‘m just gonna... leave it to history and let you drink. Antivan courage and all.”

 

He tap his his glass to hers and, before he takes a liberal swallow, says, “I‘ll certainly need it for when I kill the bard.”

 

☙❧

 

Dorian does not, in fact, kill the bard.

 

Instead, he wanders back to his nook once they‘ve powered through two bottles of the vile liquor and the dread Inquisitor has gone to introduce the taste to Bull. He makes it up the stairs with relative ease, but collapses in the chair the moment he‘s able.

 

The lute still rests where he‘d left it when the Inquisitor had wandered close. He lifts it into his lap with a sigh, strumming without purpose or tune as he sinks even lower into the chair. He‘ll be up for more drinks at the tavern in a moment; he only needs to catch his second wind. Dwarven moonshine packs quite the punch. Like a brick to the head, if he's feeling poetic. The sound of the Tranquil stowing away the day‘s research and shuffling toward the stairs is quite soothing to his fuzzed mind.

 

In one moment he‘s mulling over all the ways he could bribe Kaariss to dampen his muse (or at least direct it toward the chantry sisters), and in the next there is a jostling hand at his shoulder. Dorian twitches, groaning softly at the ache in his neck as he straightens up. Adaar crouches before him, retracting his hand. His expression is even, measured, but his eyes are warm.

 

“Sorry to wake you,” he says, patting Dorian’s knee with his oversized mitt. “Leaving you that way would’ve put a crick in your neck.”

 

“Too late for that,” Dorian huffs, rubbing at the ache. Adaar makes a sympathetic noise and raises his hand again, tapping Dorian‘s wrist.

 

“I could take care of that,” he says. Dorian doesn‘t give the offer even a moment to linger between them.

 

“By all means.”

 

And the cool, soothing pull of healing magic soaks through his skin, muscle, all the way to the marrow of his bones. Through heavily-lidded eyes he watches Adaar‘s focus, the strong shape of his jaw and the angle of his crooked nose. He meets Dorian‘s eyes like all the staring is permissible, and the corners of his mouth tic up.

 

He doesn‘t even need to lean closer to reach, which is a shame. Dorian could use the excuse.

 

The excuse for what?

 

Dorian closes his eyes and sighs as the cool magic turns to warmth when Adaar‘s hand comes to rest on his bare skin.

 

“Are you feeling well?” he asks. The magic fades entirely, until it is just Adaar touching Dorian for the sake of touching. “The Inquisitor said I should check on you.”

 

“Well enough,” Dorian answers. He pats the back of Adaar‘s hand and opens his eyes. Adaar smiles at him in the dim tower light, his hands upon Dorian‘s body a gentle comfort, and Dorian wants very badly to kiss him.

 

Excuse for what, indeed.

 

“You smell like hard liquor,” Adaar says with a funny little tilt of his head. “... and herbal syrup?”

 

“Your nose is as sharp as ever, my friend, but the only syrup here is yours,” Dorian tells him fondly. “You‘re very tactile this evening.”

 

Adaar pulls his hands from Dorian‘s neck and knee. “Sorry.”

 

”Why should you be?” Dorian tuts, not quite brave enough to grab them and return them to his body. By way of apology, he says, “It wasn‘t a noteworthy observation. You‘re always tactile. It seems to be a commonality between you qunari.”

 

“Ah. Perhaps it’s hereditary?”

 

“I do love it when you humor me.”

 

Adaar‘s laughter a low, rich note in the quiet of the tower,  and Dorian... Dorian is inhibited. Dorian is tired - in the bone-deep way that yearns for a bed, and the heart-heavy way that yearns for Adaar‘s bed. Dorian is allowing Adaar to lift the lute from his lap. Dorian is still thinking about kissing him.

 

This... this shouldn‘t be so difficult. It‘s true enough that Adaar is a friend, but Dorian has kissed his friends before. Kissing is a chaste term for what he‘s done with _friends_. Still, he has spent all this time practicing an admirable amount of restraint because... reasons.

 

They are reasons he has never had before now - before Adaar. Wanting to kiss, among other things, and shying away from the want because it isn‘t a wise one. In a different capacity, he has always known the sentiment. Dorian has never felt and loathed it as much as he does now, here, with Adaar.

 

“Copper for your thoughts?” Adaar offers, resting his hands on his knees. The position crouched before Dorian can hardly be a comfortable one, but those massive thighs are just there for Dorian‘s perusal, so he‘s hardly going to complain.

 

“There is no better way to insult a gambler,” he tuts. “But perhaps you‘ll soothe my wounded pride by raising it a silver.”

 

“I have a few gold pieces hidden away somewhere.”

 

“Never let it be said that Dorian Pavus cannot be bought by meager riches.” He leans forward a little, resting his chin within a cupped palm. It is too warm, too comfortable here, and he is still too imbibed to keep the smile off his face. “I see you don‘t have any coin in hand, but you‘re the trustworthy sort. We‘ll call it a favor, shall we?” He nods to himself. “I‘ve rather cheated you there; I love satisfying your curiosity almost as much as I love keeping you guessing. A character flaw of mine, but you seem to take those in stride. Very well: my thoughts.”

 

The laughter lines at the corners of Adaar‘s eyes grow deeper with his poorly-hidden amusement, which Dorian must ignore if he‘s to keep himself from tipping right over between those massive thighs and mapping the charming lines of them with his lips.

 

“Firstly: The only time you should ever accept a drink from a dwarf is when that dwarf is not the Inquisitor.” Adaar tips his head the scantest inch to the side, curiosity plain on his face, but he does not interrupt. A pity. “Second: A chair is never a bed, no matter how hard we may try. Third: I still intend to kill the bard, mind. It will have to wait until morning. I need to find my bard-killing robes.” He taps his lips with a finger. “I don’t have any bard-killing robes. Fifth: Ask Enchanter Vivienne if she does.”

 

“Fourth,” Adaar says, propping his chin on a palm.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“You missed the fourth thought.”

 

“I did no such thing,” Dorian chides. There must be a smile on his face, because he can hear it in the shape of his words as he tips forward. “I just didn’t say it aloud. I didn’t know you had to be privy to each and every of my whims.”

 

“My apologies.” Adaar dips his head. He looks appropriately contrite, so Dorian sniffs. He shifts forward until his calves rest against the inside of Adaar’s knees.

 

“Accepted. Now. Where was I?”

 

“Your sixth thought,” Adaar supplies, the laughter lines at the corners of his eyes creasing deep and dark in the poor light of the tower. “But only if you’d like to share it with me.”

  
“Oh, very well,” says Dorian, “if you insist,” and he cups Adaar’s face to hold him steady while he sinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Inquire about fic requests [here!](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/ask)  
> Title from “I Have Never Loved Someone” by My Brightest Diamond: _I have never loved someone the way I love you/ I have never seen a smile like yours / And if you grow up to be king or clown or pauper / I will say you are my favorite one in town_
> 
> If you are so inclined, feel free to follow [my Tumblr](http://wardencommando.tumblr.com/).


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